


Eternity

by HopeCoppice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Swap, Crowley POV, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied/Referenced Violence, Love Confessions, M/M, Other, Rated for implied/off screen torture, Trauma, because of the, many body parts described as separate from their owners, mostly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-11-23 19:56:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20895248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: “So, what’s it going to be, then? An eternity in the deepest pit?”They were so sure it was going to be Hellfire and Holy Water, but it turns out that Heaven and Hell are sticklers for tradition.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Please note the tags - this is an angsty one, and while it's not overly graphic, there's definitely some violence and descriptions of the aftermath.
> 
> That said, enjoy!

“Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!”

It’s hardly a surprise, but Crowley’s face twists slightly at the sound of the demons calling for his punishment. Beelzebub smiles mockingly at him.

“Do you have anything to szzay before we take our vengeance on you?”

Crowley’s shoulders rise and fall in a careless shrug with altogether too much care buried beneath it.

“So, what’s it going to be, then? An eternity in the deepest pit?”

“Oh, yeszz, Crowley. And it’s going to be _ especially _pleasant down there for you.”

Crowley’s muscles tense as his arms are grabbed, his legs dragged along the floor as his gangly body is half-marched, half-carried away.

_ This was not supposed to happen, _ Aziraphale just has time to think, _ I was sure the prophecy meant- _

But then the flailing of Crowley’s limbs becomes too irritating for his captors, and a smart blow to the demon’s head knocks the angel unconscious. He has just enough time for one last thought. 

_ Then what's happening to Crowley? _


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the first chapter was so short, I thought I'd throw this one up at the same time. Enjoy!

“Don’t talk to me about the greater good, sunshine. I’m the Archangel Fucking Gabriel. The greater good was we were finally going to settle things with the opposition once and for all.”

Aziraphale’s adam’s apple bobs as Gabriel seizes the chair his arms are tied to and begins dragging both chair and occupant effortlessly across Heaven. The other archangels follow, looking solemn, and Crowley knows, with an awful sensation of deja vu, where they are going.

At least they untie Aziraphale’s hands first, set the angel’s feet at the very edge of Heaven and wait for him to weep. To beg. To plead for his immortal soul.

“I don’t suppose I could persuade you to reconsider…?” They will never let him stay, anyway.

“Off you go,” Gabriel prompts, as if he hasn't spoken at all.

“Right. Well, lovely knowing you all. May we meet on a better occasion.”

“We won’t. I can’t begin to imagine what Hell’s going to do to you, when you get there. Now shut your stupid mouth and Fall already.”

Crowley _ can _begin to imagine what Hell might do, but he doesn’t have any choice. Aziraphale’s face smiles tightly, and Aziraphale’s foot moves forward, and Crowley is Falling.

It’s not so bad, once you get used to it. Crowley has Fallen before, after all, and it’s not as if there’s any Grace left to rip out of him. He barely notices that he’s on fire, other than to regret the damage to Aziraphale’s beloved jacket. He can miracle it away, of course, once everything’s over, but he’ll _ know_. Crashing into the pool of boiling sulphur is unpleasant, to say the least, but he hauls himself out and shakes Aziraphale’s body until the last of the scalding liquid is gone. Then he looks around to find the place deserted.

_ They’re probably all still sitting around talking about my trial_, he deduces, and takes advantage of the opportunity to get Aziraphale’s body to the nearest exit, and back up to Earth.

Crowley sits in Aziraphale’s body on their chosen bench for hours. Waiting. He waits, and he waits, but by the time the sun rises the next morning, Aziraphale’s not there.


	3. Chapter 2

Crowley fills Aziraphale’s lungs with air, slowly, then empties them just as slowly. Something has gone wrong - well, two things, presumably, because he was expecting Hellfire and Aziraphale was supposed to be back at the bench long before darkness fell - and now there’s only one thing he can do. As far as anybody on either side is concerned, Aziraphale is Fallen, now. And that means nobody should question it if he walks into Hell. Crowley, on the other hand, needs to get back to Hell because it’s Aziraphale’s last known location. He must still be in there. Crowley refuses to consider any alternative.

He walks Aziraphale’s feet straight through the watery floor of the main entrance and back into Hell, barely stopping to think about what awaits him there. He hopes Aziraphale isn’t on the list to be tortured, because while he’ll gladly take the pain for his friend, Aziraphale is going to need his body back eventually and he’d rather it be in the condition it was in when he left it with him.

He’s fortunate; Beelzebub sees him walk in and takes him under zir protection.

“It’zz been a while since we’ve had a newly-fallen angel down here. Are you going to need convinzzzing to work with uzzz?”

“No. No, I think it’s fairly clear that I’m on your side now, and I want to do a better job down here than I did, you know… up there.” Aziraphale’s finger pokes nervously at the air above them, and Beelzebub looks utterly delighted.

“Well, then. Let’zz get you going on some jobzzz-”

“Er. Actually, I did wonder - the other traitor? The, er, Demon Crowley? I wondered what had happened to him, only it’s rather his fault that I’m here, and I understand that’s probably got him a commendation but all the same I  _ am  _ quite cross with him-” Beelzebub glares, and Crowley hastens on. “Not that it’s not simply wonderful to be here, but it did, ah, sting a bit on the way down.”

“Ah, yezzz. That will fade. The traitor izz being punished with an eternity in the deepest torture pit.”

“Oh, torture, good.” Crowley only hopes that Aziraphale’s face hasn’t gone as pale as it feels right now. “I’d love to see it-”

“We don’t truzzt you yet,” Beelzebub tells him firmly, as ze guides him towards a desk with a frankly staggering amount of paperwork piled up on it. “Earn your way up the rankzz, and we might even let you torture him yourzzelf one day.”

“Oh! Oh, splendid. I look forward to it. Yes. Er, any chance I could go and wreak some havoc on Earth before I do the paperwork? That always did sound like the fun bit.”

“I suppozzze. Juzzt for a little while. Take the paperzz with you, we want them back within the zzentury.” And ze waves him off.

Crowley, back on Earth, wastes no time whatsoever in hiding the paperwork in Aziraphale’s safe. He knows the combination, of course - it's 4004, the year they were created, and Aziraphale has never changed it - but it's not  _ him _ he's worried about. The important thing is that the paperwork should never be found and filed, because if the paperwork is properly filed, Aziraphale might really, actually Fall, and that would be devastating for the angel.

The angel who is in Hell right now, being tortured. Tortured for Crowley’s sins. Oh, Hea- He-  _ shit _ . He's going to have to boost Aziraphale up the Hellish ranks as fast as possible, which means being a model demon without anyone stopping to question how a freshly-fallen angel has got so good at it.

Perhaps it's time to let slip a few details of the Arrangement to his colleagues, after all.


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting another chapter tonight because I'm out tomorrow and busy Monday (it's my birthday), so it might be Tuesday before you get another update (unless I can squeeze one in).
> 
> I will still try to answer any comments asap though, so please feel free to leave them!

“Ha, good one - wait, so it was _ you _who tempted the Pope back in the 90s?”

“The 1490s?” Aziraphale’s head bobs enthusiastically in confirmation, then stops. Crowley has to be careful; if he says anything to get _ himself _in trouble, Aziraphale - the real Aziraphale - might suffer for it. “Well, I helped. Demon Crowley did most of the heavy lifting, but I certainly didn’t thwart him. And some of the funny bits were my idea.”

“No wonder you’re doing such a good job. The traitor taught you well, at least.” Hastur sneers - which counts, on his face, as a friendly expression - and wanders off to torment some lesser demons. There _ are _lesser demons than Aziraphale, now, and that is progress.

Crowley has been back in Hell for almost four months, and he’s been a model demon - in his own way - for all of that time. If it seems as though Aziraphale’s a little quick on the uptake, that can be blamed on Crowley’s influence on Earth, and if his temptations tend towards the mildly annoying rather than the devastating, he can give the same excuse. Beelzebub has already promoted him twice, and now he’s allowed to spend more time on Earth if he chooses, making trouble. But he checks in more often than ever, always hoping that he’ll have done enough to be allowed to torture himself. Er- to torture Aziraphale, in his body. To see him again.

He tries not to think about what’s happening to Aziraphale, while he’s working so hard to get the angel’s name on the demonic Honour Roll. He tries not to think about what he might find, when he finally gets to that deepest pit, or what he might be expected to _ do_. Instead, he focuses on his work.

Beelzebub calls him into zir office again, and hands him an assignment. He doesn’t even look at it.

“I was wondering, Lord Beelzebub, if- that is- when I might be allowed to have a crack at the torturing side of things? Only I really am itching to get my hands on the demon who made me Fall.”

“You don’t have the clearanzze-”

“Then how do I get it?”

“Thizz botherzz you,” Beelzebub observes thoughtfully, “it dizztractzz you.”

“He caused me pain,” Crowley states carefully, “and I wish to return the favour.”

“Thizzz job izz a big one.” Ze gestures towards the file in Aziraphale’s hands, and Crowley glances down at it for the first time. “It’zz the kind of thing that might get you a promotion. And that meanzz higher clearanzze.”

“But this- this is much bigger than anything I’ve done before. This is…” _ Genuinely evil, _Crowley can’t say. “Do you think I’m capable of it?” Aziraphale’s lips move instead, and Beelzebub claps a hand to his shoulder.

“There’zz only one way to find out. Do thizz… and you can vizzzit the traitor Crowley.”

Crowley stares down at the file through Aziraphale’s eyes. _ Do this, and you can see him. _

“I won’t let you down, Lord Beelzebub.”


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn't going to post another one so soon, but somebody wrecked my mood so I thought I'd put some angst back out into the world.
> 
> Not gonna lie, I'd love some comments if you have any to spare.

It takes Crowley three weeks to see his latest assignment through, and when it’s done he feels sick. He finds some comfort in the fact that nobody was directly  _ killed  _ through his actions, and swears to himself that when Aziraphale is free, Crowley will do his best to set things right for those he’s wronged. For now, he has no choice but to walk into Hell and declare the job well done.

“Nobody’zz dead,” Beelzebub notes as ze looks over his report, “but they didn’t need to be. We’ll have them soon enough. Exzzellent work.”

“Good enough for a promotion?”

Beelzebub regards him coldly for a few moments, and Crowley thinks he’s gone too far, pushed too hard for what he wants. Then Beelzebub nods.

“I think we can manage that. And you can zee the traitor… just azz long azz you promizze you understand he’zz the enemy now.”

“Of course. Traitor to Hell. Got it.”

“He’zz  _ your  _ enemy.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Crowley responds, hoping the truth of it can be seen on Aziraphale’s face.

“Szzay it.”

“The Demon Crowley is my enemy,” Crowley tells zir obediently, hating the sound of the words rolling off Aziraphale’s tongue but reluctant to take any liberties. This, at least, is not a lie; Crowley has always been his own worst enemy. Well, maybe not his  _ worst,  _ but certainly one of them. “The Demon Crowley has caused me untold pain and inconvenience over the years, and he deserves to suffer for it. I  _ hate  _ the Demon Crowley.” And he does, for what he has allowed to happen to Aziraphale. For what he fears he will have to do to get him out.

“Well, then.” Beelzebub looks reluctantly impressed. “You really are a much better demon than you were an angel, by all reportzz. I’ll make the arrangementzz, and you can begin your torture practizze on the traitor.”

_ You cover me, and I’ll cover you,  _ Crowley thinks to himself - the Arrangement in its truest form. He will cover Aziraphale, whatever it takes, and he will get him out.

And then he’s walking through the crowded corridors of Hell, flanked by surly, watchful demons who clearly don’t trust him as far as they could throw him. He’s walking down one permanently-broken escalator after another until, at last, he finds himself standing outside the very deepest pit of Hell. It’s a fearsome, horrible place, and although Crowley has never been here before, he knows its reputation. Here, demons are broken.

And somewhere on the other side of the door is his angel.


	6. Chapter 5

Aziraphale’s lungs fill with air one last time - the scent of brimstone and fire as soothing as ever, which is to say not at all - and then Crowley enters the pit, flanked by his guards. He forces himself to remain impassive as his eyes fall upon his own corporation, which is not as he’d left it. In fact, he barely recognises it, bruised and battered as it is, sagging from cruel chains that bind it to the wall. They’re blessed, he realises, and at least it’s some relief that they won’t be _ burning _ Aziraphale as intended, but the fact that they’re blessed at all suggests that Heaven has been working _ with _ Hell to inflict this on - well, on _ him_, he supposes.

All this flashes through his mind in the instant before Aziraphale looks up. Crowley meets his own eyes and sees his angel behind them - surely it’s obvious to anyone who looks into those yellow eyes that there’s goodness trapped behind them. Perhaps that only makes them more certain of his guilt. Goodness is not a desirable trait in a demon, after all. At least the blood dripping from a nasty gash on Crowley’s head is black; their ruse hasn’t been discovered yet. It’s hard to focus on that, though, when he can see that the angel inside his body is all but broken.

“Angel,” Crowley’s voice is wrecked; Crowley himself doesn’t think he’s ever heard it sound so bad. “You made it. Come and join the party.”

“Wha-?”

“Teaching you to torture, are they?” Aziraphale seems barely conscious, Crowley’s body slumping forwards, his mouth refusing to cooperate with the words. “Come on, then. Do your worst.”

“I have to,” Crowley realises, uncomfortably aware that he’s being watched. “I-”

“Angel,” the demon’s mouth slurs, “it won’t hurt if it’s you.”

It’s an uncannily good impression of himself, actually.

That doesn’t make it true, though, and now that he’s here Crowley knows he can’t hurt his angel, not even superficially. He had a vague idea, when he was working to get Aziraphale’s clearance level up, that it might be easier to do what was necessary since the being he was hurting would look like him. Crowley has almost infinite reserves of self-loathing hidden away under his bold exterior, after all. But now that he’s here, it doesn’t help at all, and he has to find an excuse, or a loophole, or some sort of imaginative solution to the problem of _ torturing Aziraphale _. He wishes he could imagine him home, back to the bookshop, so the angel could curl up with a classic novel and forget about what’s happened here. And that’s when it hits him. The only way he can think of to torture 'Crowley' and comfort Aziraphale at the same time.

“Well, ah, I seem to remember that _ you _ used to employ some rather unorthodox methods of torture. And I’ve just had a rather marvellous idea. You never _ did _let me read to you, Crowley. Well… now you have no choice.” He summons a book, and settles down to read out loud. _“The family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex.”_

Honestly, it’s a desperate attempt; he’s not expecting the other demons to let him get away with it. They probably wouldn’t, except that before he’s read three sentences, Aziraphale begins to cry.

Crowley watches as the tears roll down his own cheeks, and has to bite Aziraphale’s lip to keep himself from crying in sympathy. He had hoped the familiar words, the familiar story, might be a comfort, but now Crowley’s body is wracked with sobs and there’s no way for either of them to stop it. He _ wants _ to stop it, to apologise to Aziraphale for bringing this soft, gentle pleasure into the brutality of the torture pit, but he can’t stop now. As far as the demons watching them are concerned, this has been his plan from the moment he summoned the book. This is _ working _ . And though it might tear Aziraphale apart, Crowley has to keep reading. He has to keep _ torturing _ , or he will never get Aziraphale out. And he _ will, _ he _ has _to get Aziraphale out.

He reads for hours, trying to keep his voice steady, and Aziraphale weeps right until the end. When the story is over, Crowley snaps the book shut and banishes it to his own flat so it can’t taint the bookshop.

“That’s nothing,” he forces himself to sneer, the expression feeling wrong on Aziraphale’s face. “I’ll be back. You made me Fall, Demon Crowley, and now you’ll suffer the consequences.”

“Look forward to it,” Aziraphale rasps, a perfect imitation of Crowley’s own sarcasm, and Crowley’s heart breaks a little in Aziraphale’s chest.

“Don’t get comfy. I won’t be long.” He hopes it’s true.


	7. Chapter 6

It takes four more books before Crowley is allowed in alone. After the second - a particularly dreary Dickens - Aziraphale grits Crowley’s teeth and grumbles, “as long as you don’t start reading Shakespeare,” so Crowley makes sure to bring _ Richard II _ next. He suspects he’s disappointing the angel by not bringing _ Hamlet _or the sonnets, but he can’t bring himself to sully a happy memory. As for the sonnets, he has often dreamed of reading them aloud to his angel, but not in Hell. Not like this.

When Hell finally takes its eye off the ball, it’s mostly down to Aziraphale’s ingenuity.

“What next, angel? _ War and Peace? _ We’ve only got the one eternity, you know.” Crowley’s baffled by the request, at first - Aziraphale barely even _ touches _the copy he keeps in the shop - but when he summons one up to have a look, he realises that it’s exactly what they need. The demons guarding them have already seemed bored enough by these little reading sessions, appeased only by the way Aziraphale’s tears roll down Crowley’s face as he listens, and when they see the enormous book tucked under Aziraphale’s arm they abruptly decide-

“You know what, Aziraphale? You’ve got this. You’re ready to fly solo. Have fun in there.”

And then they walk away. They walk away and leave Crowley to go through the door to the deepest pit alone.

The moment it closes behind him, Crowley drops his book and rushes forward, all pretence abandoned.

“Angel, come on, quick, swap back so you can get out of here.”

“No.”

“All right, swap back so _ we _can get out of here-”

“No, _ thank you_.”

“What-? But- angel, this is our chance. They won’t expect me to report back for hours-”

“We’ll change back,” Aziraphale told him, slowly and deliberately, “once we’re out.”

“But- you’re hurt.” Crowley takes in the damage to his own corporation, the rasp in his voice. “I can take that for you now, we can-”

“I need you to get me out,” Aziraphale insists, “you know Hell. Your mind is clear. You might have to help me- but we’re not swapping back.”

“Yet,” Crowley concedes reluctantly, “we won’t swap back _ yet_. Fine.” A snap of his fingers, and the blessed chains fall away. Aziraphale drops to Crowley’s knees on the floor, breathing hard. “Can you walk?”

“You said… we have hours.” Aziraphale looks up at him through Crowley’s own eyes, and Crowley wonders if he looks just as wretched when he talks to Her. “Can I take a minute?”

“Of course. Of course, yeah. And then…” There’s no point trying to miracle their way out of the pit - it’s the _ deepest pit _ \- but there’s an exit just outside. Hell is shockingly poorly-designed, really, from a defensive point of view, but it’s not as though Crowley’s ever _ cared _about defending it. He certainly doesn’t now. “Your corporation’s strong. I’ll carry you out.”

“Yes, my corporation.” Aziraphale snorts; Crowley suspects it’s meant to be a laugh, but there’s no mirth to be had in this place. “What _ have _ you dressed it in?”

“Had to look like a demon,” Crowley tells him, “to get in here. I didn’t hurt your coat, don’t worry.”

“They told me- you- I- Fell.”

“No, angel. _ I _did. Ready to go?”

“I’m afraid you really _ might _ have to carry me.” Aziraphale grimaces. “Not sure you want this back.”

“Shut up and hold on tight.”

He lifts his own broken body into Aziraphale’s arms, and it’s so surreal that it makes him feel nauseous - but he perseveres, because the important thing is that they’re getting out, together, and then they’re going to find somewhere safe and swap back. Crowley will take back his corporation and all its pain, and he will wrap his wings around Aziraphale and comfort him until the injuries to his soul have healed.

“Put your head on my shoulder- my head- just- do that, OK? And don’t move.”

“Why?” But Aziraphale is already complying, and Crowley would feel stupid explaining that he’s just remembered the story of Orpheus and doesn’t want to take any chances.

“Just- just hold on.”

There’s nobody in the corridor when he flings the door open; Aziraphale makes a tiny, startled noise as it crashes against the wall, then whispers urgently in his ear.

“Down, can you crouch down just for a second?” He obeys - there’s no time to waste in asking questions, for once - and when Aziraphale thanks him he stands again and runs. Aziraphale’s corporation was built to defend a gate, to be a warrior; Aziraphale’s back is broad, and his arms are strong, and his legs put one foot in front of the other until they reach the exit, until they have clattered up the rusty metal stairs and emerged into the air. They’re not in London; this old, forgotten exit lets out near the forlorn mound of a long-buried hillfort on the South Coast. Crowley takes flight, Aziraphale’s wings beating with a strength their rightful owner doesn’t currently possess, and takes them to the hideout he’s prepared for them.

They are out of Hell, but they are not yet out of the woods.


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I love you guys, I didn't split this in half. You're welcome.

It is with the greatest reluctance that Crowley finds himself standing in the bookshop, watching Aziraphale’s hands enter the code to the safe, Crowley’s own hand placed casually on the angel’s shoulder as if in reassurance, rather than to keep Crowley’s damaged corporation upright. The paperwork is easy enough to retrieve; he’d left it on top of everything else.

“No paperwork, no Fall,” Aziraphale’s mouth mumbles, and Crowley’s head nods. “They’re coming,” Aziraphale’s tongue adds, and Crowley feels the weight of the knowledge in his soul.

Crowley’s body shrinks into Aziraphale’s side, cringing from the divine energy that suddenly fills the bookshop as if it knows it’s too fragile to withstand it. Aziraphale’s body plants itself firmly in front of the demon’s corporation, demonic papers clutched to Aziraphale’s chest.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel booms, “Hell asked us for a favour, and - naturally - we’re only too happy to help them out on this occasion. Neither side takes kindly to thieves, after all.”

“You gave me the distinct impression that I wasn’t under your jurisdiction any more,” Aziraphale points out, and Gabriel laughs.

“Well, you’re a demon now. I’m quite within my divine rights to smite you. But just for formality’s sake, Beelzebub is watching through the window. Ze’ll confirm, for Hell, that justice is being served. After all, you did steal their traitor.”

“Well, then. Are you going to smite me?” Aziraphale’s voice sounds steady enough, as if he’s mildly annoyed by the inconvenience, but Crowley has never been more afraid. They had just needed to destroy the paperwork; perhaps it should have waited. Perhaps they could have hidden for just a few more hours, long enough for a proper recovery. It’s been only a few hours since they left Hell, and it’s already over.

“You don’t deserve smiting.” Gabriel meets Aziraphale’s eyes with an icy smile. “We’ve decided to just get rid of the pair of you the way your precious traitor demon did. His idea will destroy you both. Poetic, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think you understand poetry,” Crowley’s lips mumble, and Aziraphale’s hand moves to squeeze his shoulder as if by reflex. There’s no time to think about it, though. Gabriel has reached into his suit jacket and is withdrawing a sports bottle; there’s no doubt about its contents. Holy Water. The tiniest drop of it will destroy Crowley, body and soul.

Gabriel unscrews the lid without ceremony and tosses it, almost carelessly, in the direction of Aziraphale and Crowley. Aziraphale’s body steps forwards, wings stretching out powerfully in either direction, shielding the demon’s injured corporation from the splash - and then it hits, and Crowley closes his eyes, waiting for the sting of destruction.

It doesn’t come. He opens his eyes to find Aziraphale’s wings still spread, now dripping. He is drenched from head to toe, but Crowley’s corporation is absolutely dry. Gabriel takes in the perfect white wings in front of him, watches the holy water pool on the floor at Aziraphale’s feet, and his mouth falls open in horror. Aziraphale’s mouth, by contrast, simply twists in annoyance.

“Really, Gabriel? I’ve had this coat for over a _ century_.”

“What _ are _ you?” Gabriel is staring from Aziraphale’s wings, to his coat, to his steely expression and his empty hands. “You _ Fell_, I saw you Fall-”

“You’ve seen a lot of people Fall.” Aziraphale’s wings remain rigid, outstretched. “Did they all have wings like mine, afterwards?”

“No- that's impossible-”

“Crowley and I are our own side, now.” Aziraphale’s voice is firm. “And it seems we’re not so Fallen after all. Leave us alone, unless you want to find out what we’re _ truly _ capable of. Both of us. _ Both sides.” _Aziraphale’s eyes meet Beelzebub’s, zir shocked face still visible outside the window. “Do we have an understanding?”

“You’ll never see us again,” Gabriel assures them, and Beelzebub nods. There’s a clap of thunder, and both intruders are gone.

There’s a moment of silence and stillness, and then Aziraphale speaks.

“Get away from me, I don’t want you getting wet.”

Crowley scrambles for the stairs up to the flat above them, drags himself painfully up a few of them and closes the door back to the shop. He hears a flurry of wings - Aziraphale’s wings - and then feels the distinct ripple of an angelic miracle.

“Safe?” He calls, and Aziraphale hesitates before replying.

“Dry,” he confirms, “you can come back in.”

“Not sure I can,” Crowley admits, “I didn’t think I was going to be able to stay upright for all of that. What did they _ do _to you?”

There’s no answer, and Crowley tentatively pushes the door back open with his foot. What he finds tears at his heart, which is back where it belongs in his own chest. Aziraphale is kneeling at the centre of his own bookshop, wings folded against his back, trembling like a leaf in the wind.

“Angel.” For all his earlier weakness, for all the pain his corporation feels, he finds himself stumbling forwards, shaking out his own wings to wrap them around Aziraphale. The angel collapses against his chest and Crowley holds him tight, whispering sweet, reassuring nothings into his ear. “It’s all right. You’re home now, you’re safe. You have all the time in the world to recover. You’re going to be all right. You’re going to be fine.”

“We should change back,” Aziraphale mumbles, “no sense both of us hurting-”

“You have the memories,” Crowley insists, “let me carry the wounds. They’ll heal. We’ll both heal. I promise you, Aziraphale. We’ll heal.”

“Do you think they’ll stay away?”

“I don’t know.” Crowley hopes they will, but he’s not enough of a fool to risk it. “Best leave for now. Hopefully, they’ll be looking for your paperwork for a while yet.” They’d hoped that demonic paperwork would be printed on infernal paper, and sure enough it had been utterly obliterated by the Holy Water. Crowley’s trying not to dwell on how easily he might have gone the same way. Aziraphale’s ‘Fall’ can’t be processed, now, a convenient side-effect of the bluff they hope has bought their safety.

“Can you fly?” Aziraphale reaches for his hand, grips it tightly in his own. “I’m not sure I remember the way to your ingenious safehouse.”

“I can- I think-” His wings are largely untouched, and he knows why; wings are tricky things, and neither of them had been certain that they’d change with their corporations. Falling hadn’t been enough to force Crowley to open Aziraphale's wings, and it seemed that all the demons of Hell hadn’t been able to force Aziraphale to manifest Crowley's. “Yeah. Might have to stop a few times.”

“Fine. Let’s go, then.” He doesn’t say it, but Crowley understands. Aziraphale needs to feel safe, and he doesn’t, not here, in his own home. The safehouse may be little better, but at least it should keep them hidden from Heaven and Hell for now.

They step outside, hand in hand, and take a deep breath. Then white wings and black beat steadily together, launching them into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the confusing body parts, I live to vex you all. And, hopefully, to surprise you occasionally.


	9. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where we get a bit more detail on some of the injuries Aziraphale sustained in Hell - not too graphic, in the end, but just so you're warned.

Time, they say, heals all wounds, but it’s not always quick about it.

Crowley is very aware that Aziraphale was in Hell, being tortured with far worse than just classic literature, for a little over six months while Crowley raced to build up sufficient credibility to save him. He knows - and regrets - that bringing books into that situation changed Aziraphale’s relationship with reading even as it spared him physical damage at Crowley’s hands. With hindsight, Crowley should have hit him, as any new demon might have done. Then it would have been Crowley’s burden to bear, soon enough. Physical scars fade more quickly, but even those take time.

Crowley’s corporation has, as far as he can tell, been beaten, burned, blessed and broken. It has been prodded, poked, and pressed. He doesn’t know the details; Aziraphale looked so pathetic on the one occasion Crowley asked him about it that he dropped the subject and didn’t bring it up again. He knows that they didn’t use Hellfire - Hell must have passed over it because of Crowley’s immunity - because Aziraphale still _ exists_. Crowley does his best not to let his mind stray to an alternative reality in which they _ did _try it. Crowley is fortunate, too, in that the blessed chains meant to sear the flesh of his corporation and the essence of his soul had no effect while his body was in Aziraphale’s care. It’s a worrying indication, however, that Aziraphale might not have been released from the chains from the moment they were locked into place; surely Hell would have had questions if they had noticed the lack of burns.

That much, he can deduce from the various aches and pains that plague him as he potters around the cottage he’s taken possession of. It was hard to find somewhere that suited neither his usual tastes, nor Aziraphale’s, but he didn’t want either side to be drawn to their usual signature styles. Aziraphale pointed out, in one of his more talkative hours, that neither side has a single clue what either of them like, nor ever tried to work it out, but Crowley would rather be safe than sorry. He is already so sorry.

Three weeks after they faced off with Gabriel, Aziraphale has yet to say a word about his experience of Hell, and he has yet to pick up a book. He offered to heal Crowley’s corporation, on the first day of their concealment, but Crowley turned him down.

“Don’t know how our energies would react, after everything,” he said, and it wasn’t a lie. He _ didn’t _ know. It might, however, have been _ more _truthful to admit that it didn’t feel right to be allowed to shrug off the injuries Aziraphale had taken for him, to walk away without punishment while his angel was still suffering. If he could not share Aziraphale’s emotional burden, he could at least allow the physical wounds he now bore to heal the mortal way.

They aren’t healing. But Aziraphale doesn’t seem to have noticed, because he isn’t healing either.

“Angel,” Crowley begins softly, cautiously, as he always does when he finds Aziraphale staring blankly at the kettle, “you’re safe. I’m here.” He hesitates before adding, “I’m worried about you.”

“No need,” the angel tells him, eyes fixed on a distant point somewhere beyond the kitchen wall. “I’m absolutely-”

“Do not say _ fine_, Aziraphale, and for the love of all that’s earthly do not even _ think _ about saying _ tickety-boo.” _

“Well, then.” Aziraphale turns, fury in his eyes - but he turns and looks at Crowley, and that's something. “What do you expect me to say?”

“I expect-” Crowley stops himself, forces a deep breath into his aching lungs and out again with a hiss. “I _ want _you to tell me how you’re really feeling, I want to help-”

“You can’t! You can’t help, Crowley, and I can’t tell you how I’m feeling because I don’t _ know! _ I don’t even feel like _ myself _ any more. I don’t remember how to _ be _me.” And then, as if he’s lanced the boil of his anger, he collapses in on himself. “I don’t know who I am.”

Crowley takes his hand, relieved when the angel allows it, and leads him to the uncomfortably overstuffed sofa. He tells himself it’s for Aziraphale’s comfort, but the truth is that his legs hurt and he feels as though he could use a year-long nap. He’s been staying up late, waiting for Aziraphale to sleep before he goes to his own bedroom, and every time he’s slept he’s woken in a panic to find Aziraphale already drifting around like a ghost.

Aziraphale’s comfort is important, too, though, so Crowley’s first act is to make sure he’s not making things worse.

“I, er, I know we don’t… touch, much. But I’d like to keep hold of your hand, if you don’t mind. Is that OK?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale mumbles robotically, and then, “feels safe.”

“Good. Good, I’m glad it feels safe. Can you… no, I’ve already asked that.” Crowley frowns, running over Aziraphale’s outburst in his mind. “You said you don’t know who you are. Would it help if I told you what I know about you?”

“You know everything about me,” Aziraphale points out, quieter than Crowley’s ever heard him, and the demon’s heart breaks again. “Or… you did.”

“I don’t know what happened to you. That’s true. But I knew you before. Would you like me to tell you who you are to me?” That’s a different question, and not quite the one he meant to ask. But Aziraphale looks up at him with wide, hopeful eyes, and Crowley wouldn’t betray that trust for the wide world, nor every star in sight of it.

“You love to read.” Aziraphale flinches, and Crowley blesses himself in the privacy of his thoughts. Bad example. Bad start. “You love dressing about a century out of style. You love pastries, and feeding the ducks, and… well, you love so many things, Aziraphale. Heaven talks a good game about love, but you _ live _ it. You love the humans who are kind to you, you love the ones that push past you in the street, the ones who leave fingerprints all over your-” _ Books, you can’t mention books- _ “-possessions… for Somebody’s sake, Aziraphale, you even manage to like _ me.” _

“No,” Aziraphale whispers, and Crowley’s heart stutters to a stop. He turns his gasp into vowels, reaches for the words he knows he has to say.

“Ah, uh. No. No, that’s all right, I know- I know it’s just the Arrangement, but you tolerate me at least-”

“No.” Aziraphale’s hand squeezes his. “Love.”

Crowley’s world stops spinning for a moment, reverses its direction and begins again, despair turning to something like hope for just a few seconds before he realises this isn’t the time. Aziraphale is being kind, of course he is, and he might even be trying to appease the demon so he doesn’t _ torture _ him. Aziraphale has been _ tortured_, he has to remember that. He might not even know what he’s saying, what it sounds like.

“Well. Well, then. And- and you bring joy. Wherever you go, and peace. You bring peace, and happiness, and comfort.”

“I’m soft,” Aziraphale guesses, hesitantly, and Crowley smiles.

“Yeah.” That’s the wrong thing to say, too, apparently; Aziraphale flinches. “Yeah, you’re soft and kind and gentle with all the things that need softness and kindness and… gentleness? Is that a word? Doesn’t sound right. You’re even kind and soft with _ me, _ and I don’t deserve it in the slightest. But you’re strong, too. Even before- before you were discorporated,” he amends hastily, “you’ve always been so strong. You gave your sword away because the humans needed it more. You stood beside Adam against Satan himself. You’re worth more than every other angel in Heaven combined, Aziraphale, and that’s what you need to remember. I wish I could make you see. You mean so much.” _ To me, _ he doesn’t say, because he doesn’t deserve Aziraphale’s thoughts. This isn't about him.

Aziraphale is quiet for a while, then, his grip on Crowley’s hand almost uncomfortably tight.

“I’m… good?”

“You’re - of _ course _ you are, angel, no-one’s _ more _good.”

“I Fell,” Aziraphale points out, and he sounds so disappointed in himself that Crowley can’t _ bear _it.

“No. No, you didn’t. _ I _Fell, and that’s not news to anyone. Didn’t even hurt.”

“But it was meant to be me-”

“If you’d been there…” Crowley doesn’t know how to explain what he feels; there’s no way to describe it except in terms of a faith he’s no longer supposed to have. “I don’t believe for a moment that She’d have let you Fall, Aziraphale. Not for a moment.”

“Why not? She let you-”

“You’re the best of them, angel. Surely you know that. All those angels gearing up for war, and you’re the only one who cared about the humans. You know how She always was about the humans.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Look at your wings, angel. I’m sure if She’d wanted it to work symbolically, it would have happened.”

“Oh.” He seems comforted by that; in fact, he settles himself into a painfully familiar posture that usually means he’s about to ask Crowley for something. Crowley will give him it, anything, whatever he wants, always. “Crowley?”

“Yeah?”

“I think I need to heal you, now. May I?”

“Focus on you, angel. I’m fine.”

“It’s not selfless, my dear.” How he’s missed the affectionate name. “I remember getting each of those wounds… if you’d trust me… I’d like to be able to say goodbye to them, too. To clear the slate.”

“Oh.” Crowley thinks about it for a moment. “I’m not giving them back to you.” He doesn’t want Aziraphale getting back into his body, suffering all those injuries over again. “But if it would help… you can heal me. If you’re up to it.”

“Yes. Please.”

That’s how Crowley ends up sitting on the sofa in nothing but his boxer shorts, displaying every mark and bruise he’s tried not to look at too closely over the last few weeks, with Aziraphale sitting beside him. It seems only right that if Aziraphale is going to heal each wound, finding his own closure, he should be able to see what he’s doing, what he’s saying goodbye to. A little semi-nudity is nothing compared to what Aziraphale has been through for him. Still, Crowley feels exposed and vulnerable.

“All right?” Aziraphale murmurs, edging closer along the sofa.

“Yeah.” But then Aziraphale reaches out, and Crowley can’t suppress a shiver as his fingers stop an inch from his bare shoulder. He is suddenly very aware of how close he is to the being he’s loved for so many centuries, and Aziraphale hesitates.

“Are you sure?”

“Hm.” Aziraphale has suffered so much for Crowley, and the fact that he doesn’t love Crowley the way he loves him is irrelevant, so Crowley has to push it from his mind. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

Aziraphale doesn’t seem sure at first, but as he brushes a gentle finger over the lump on Crowley’s head he sighs.

“That’s from where they took me. You saw, I think.”

“I did.” Crowley winces at the memory, even as the pain disappears. “Looked nasty.”

“Soon forgotten,” Aziraphale tells him, and his hand trails down Crowley’s arm to the bruises at his wrists. “These must be from the chains.” He ducks down, his head almost in Crowley’s lap, and the demon's heart stutters as he touches his ankles and more aches vanish. “There.” He straightens up mercifully quickly, turning his attention to Crowley’s upper body.

Crowley closes his eyes and focuses on the feeling of Aziraphale’s fingers against the tender spots on his back and torso and legs, ghosting over breaks and cuts and burns as Aziraphale explains their origins in broken whispers. It takes some time, and by the end of it Crowley feels almost boneless, sprawled back against the sofa cushions. He opens his eyes in a panic, realising that Aziraphale is quiet beside him, only to find that the angel has slumped sideways too and is watching him with a tiny smile.

“Did it help?” Crowley croaks, his voice apparently refusing to work, and then abruptly remembers his own relative nudity. He snaps his fingers to clothe himself as Aziraphale nods.

“I believe it did.”


	10. Chapter 9

It’s not an instant fix, of course. Aziraphale still loses himself in troubled thoughts sometimes, and Crowley worries and worries without knowing how to help him. But one day, he emerges from his bedroom to find Aziraphale sitting in a chair, a book on his lap. He’s not reading it, just stroking its cover fondly, but it has to be progress.

“Angel,” he greets, and Aziraphale looks up with a smile.

“Crowley. I hope you don’t mind. I stashed this away here before we changed back. I’d like to keep it.”

Crowley comes to stand behind him, intrigued, and peers at the cover.

“But... it’s not a first edition.” It’s _ War and Peace_, a fairly ordinary copy that looks as though it’s been battered a bit. In fact…

“It’s the copy you brought to Hell. The one you got me out with, you wily serpent.” He’s smiling - smiling, at the thought of Hell and their desperate escape - and Crowley can’t help but smile back.

“Is that why you had me bend down?”

“I couldn’t leave it behind.” Aziraphale sighs. “It’s foolish, I suppose. But I should have liked to keep the others, as well. _ Sense and Sensibility_, _ Richard II_… That was an unexpected choice.”

“Didn’t want to ruin Hamlet,” Crowley mumbled. “You can have them, all of them. They’re at my flat.”

“Oh, thank you.” The angel lets his head rest on the back of the seat, turning his face upwards. “Crowley, my dear, I’m not certain how I’ll react, but… would you be so kind as to read to me?”

“You… want that?”

“I think I do, yes.”

“Even- never mind.” It’s not as though Aziraphale needs reminding of when Crowley had last read to him. “Of course I'll... _War and Peace_, or…?”

“No. No, thank you. Perhaps something a little shorter.”

The angel closes his eyes and waits, a serene - if slightly nervous - smile on his face, leaving Crowley to try to think of what he might read to make his angel feel better. Something shorter. If there’s any possibility that he might upset Aziraphale, he’d rather have something very short indeed to read, in case the angel insists on seeing it through to the end. He snaps his fingers impulsively, and his own battered copy of Shakespeare’s Sonnets appears in his hands. He’s had it for over a century, now, and he could swear that Aziraphale’s nose twitches at the scent of an old book. He’ll tease him about that later, perhaps, if he doesn’t ruin everything for them now.

“Sonnet-” He clears his throat, swallowing around the lump in it; he has dreamed, in so many idle moments, of reading this to Aziraphale, and never once imagined the tension of emotional expression might be heightened by the risk of awakening horrible memories. “Sonnet 23,” he tries again, and Aziraphale goes very still in his seat. Crowley pauses, halfway through finding the page, and brushes a hand over the angel’s shoulder, lets it linger there. “Should I-?”

“No, go on.”

“Right. Sonnet 23.” He clears his throat again, though he doesn’t really need to, and tries to moderate his tone as he begins.

_ “As an unperfect actor on the stage, _

_ Who with his fear is put besides his part, _

_ Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, _

_ Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart; _

_ So I, for fear of trust, forget to say _

_ The perfect ceremony of love's rite, _

_ And in mine own love's strength seem to decay, _

_ O'ercharg'd with burden of mine own love's might. _

_ O let my books be then the eloquence _

_ And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, _

_ Who plead for love and look for recompense _

_ More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.” _

He can hear his own voice trembling, the truth of his own feelings bleeding into the words, and he dares not think about the way Aziraphale’s hand has come to cover Crowley’s own where it still rests on the angel’s shoulder.

_ “O, learn to read what silent love hath writ: _

_ To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.” _

When he’s finished, the air seems charged with a sudden understanding, and it’s all Crowley can do not to drop the book and run away. He can’t see Aziraphale’s face from this angle, and he’s afraid he wouldn’t like it if he could.

“Crowley.” It’s barely a breath as Aziraphale stands, turns to face him - and Crowley _ does _ drop the book, then, takes a couple of steps back before he realises he should pick it up. But the angel is smiling, stooping to pick it up himself, sets it carefully aside with _ War and Peace _ and takes another step towards him. “Crowley, that was _ lovely_.”

“Ngk,” Crowley chokes, and Aziraphale is still moving closer.

“You told me I was a being of love, but… I don’t think you believed me when I said I loved _you_.”

Crowley feels as though he should say something, should respond, but he can’t. He can’t make a sound.

“I do, you know. I don’t think I could have survived- I would have given up- the thought of you, safe and well and free, that was all that kept me going, because I love you. And- and you. Oh, perhaps I’m just an old fool reading into a good performance, but… did you mean it? Because- well, _ what silent love hath writ- _ you’ve written so much, Crowley, over the years, and I’ve never-”

“Love,” Crowley manages, “I do. I have. But then I let you down.”

“You didn’t, Crowley. We both knew the risks. You took my punishment for me, and you refused to leave me to yours. You never let me down, my dear, not once.” Aziraphale steps closer still, crowding into Crowley’s space, and the demon should be running but instead he holds his breath. “May I kiss you, Crowley? If- that is- if that’s-”

And Crowley surges forwards, pulls Aziraphale into his arms, buries his face in his neck to try to collect himself. It’s a mistake; he’s surrounded by the scent of the angel, distracted by the racing pulse just beneath the surface of his skin. He pulls back, afraid that he’ll be lost, and Aziraphale is there to find him, moving to capture his lips in the softest of kisses.

“Thank you,” he whispers, “for being patient with me.”

“Ngk-” Crowley has to pull himself together, has to correct him. “Thank _ you_,” he manages, “for everything you went through. For everything you _ are."_

Aziraphale stares at him for a moment, then drags him back in, pressing their foreheads together.

“Enough thanks,” he insists, “we’re even. Just be with me.”

“For as long as you want,” Crowley promises, and Aziraphale kisses him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just the epilogue after this. Should be up tomorrow!


	11. Epilogue

Aziraphale steps back into the bookshop, three months after the confrontation with Gabriel, with Crowley right at his side. He places his treasured copy of  _ War and Peace _ on the counter and does a slow rotation on the spot, taking in the old, familiar surroundings. Crowley stands nearby, and Aziraphale can feel his watchful eyes. He’s worried, Aziraphale knows, afraid that it’s too much, too soon after his ordeal. It  _ does  _ feel strange to be back, but it’s easier with Crowley at his side, strong and healthy, unbruised, unbroken. Aziraphale’s inner bruises still trouble him occasionally, and he has to reach for Crowley’s hand, to reconcile his soul with the body that held him safe through Hell, with the spirit now resident in it. But he is healing, and being at home can only help with that.

He reaches out now, and Crowley’s fingers tangle in his own without hesitation. Before he can ask for what he needs, he is wrapped in the demon’s arms, a kiss pressed to his cheek from behind as Crowley envelops him with his body and his love.

“You’re safe, you’re home,” he mumbles, and Aziraphale smiles.

“We’re safe. We’re home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, just a little one to round it off. Thank you all for reading and commenting!


End file.
